we're never done with dying
by BlazingLegend
Summary: That's when the world starts to cave in. 2000 words, oneshot.


High-five for two year old stuff reposted from my tumblr?

* * *

When he arrives, everyone stops talking.

Pairs of nervous, darting eyes set upon him, and his throat clenches; he can count the times people have looked at him like that on his left hand.

And so he hitches his shoulders, forces his breathing to slow, and lets out an easy: "Who died?"

Silence falls once more, and he knows there really is something wrong.

The first person to stir is Lily; she casts one more glance around, teeth cutting into her lower lip, and takes a step and a half forward. "Let me talk to him," she's whispering, back at Ted, "He can't hear it from you."

Ted, for one flash of a second, looks like he's going to protest.

(Then his eyes drop to the floorboards, and any motivation within him dies out, like he's remembering the person he really is as opposed to who he wants to be.)

Lily takes another shuffle of a step forward, and hesitates, before crossing all the way. "Barney, sweetie… I need to talk to you."

"Okay… sure," he says, and she takes him by the elbow, leading him out of the room, "Lily, give it to me straight. What happened?"

"There's no easy way to say this," she says, slowly, eyes searching him, for his reaction, searching for ways to handle this.

His jaw sets, and his eyebrows sketch down. He tries to smile, for her, because it's sure as hell not for him. "Then just say it."

One, solitary tear traces its way down her cheeks, stopping at her jawline; it's surreal, it doesn't look like it's a part of her, and he realises she's shaking, her entire body is just _trembling._

"Robin died."

He laughs, after a second. "You're kidding. You're Marshalling me. What really happened?"

When she doesn't say anything, that's when the world start to cave in.

His voice goes hard. "Lily, whatever crap you're trying to pull, it's not funny. Tell me the truth. What happened? Did Daisy faint again? Is she okay?"

"Barney," she says, in her soft, mother voice, and she places and equally soft hand on his shoulder, "I know this is hard to take in, but—"

"No," he says, then louder, " _No._ "

"Barney—"

He spins out, away from her, he can't see anything, nothing at all, the world is gone; disappeared.

"No. You're screwing with me. Tell me the truth!"

"It's the truth," her voice breaks on a sob, "I don't want it to be, but it is."

"No. I don't believe you. It's not—she's not—she _can't_ be—you're _lying._ "

"It was a car accident," Lily says, stepping forward, unafraid of him, and he supposes that's why it's always been _Lily_ that he's needed, no one else, because she doesn't see something broken when she looks at him, she sees a _person._

"It was a car accident," she repeats, "The doctors say she barely felt anything. She didn't feel the hit," she's crying, now, fully, and unabashed, "She didn't feel the pain."

He backs away from her, a caged animal, slumping against the wall until he's on the cold, wooden floors, his knees pressed to his chest and he's holding himself tight, so tight, because otherwise all of his shattered pieces will come tumbling out at his feet.

She kneels in front of him, trying to embrace him, but she settles for two fingers on his jaw and trying to coax his blue eyes to look into her green.

(She fails.)

"She was at the market," she says, in a slow voice, like he needs this, like he needs to know where and how it happened, how she—

(He stops thinking. If he's learned anything it's that thinking is detrimental to his health.)

"She was at the market, it was icy, she didn't see the other car—"

Ice? She's Canadian, for God's sake. She knows better than to let a little _ice_ phase her.

(Knew. She knew.)

"It hit her. Head on. That's why she didn't feel anything—it was over in a second."

Two cold, even fingers force his jaw upwards, so he's looking at her, but he can't see her, not really.

"Barney? Please say something. You're scaring me."

"Why—" his voice is ragged, rough, cut out of broken diamonds, "Why was she there?"

Lily startles. "What?"

His voice is more defined, this time. "Why was she there? Why was she at the market? She hates it there."

"She was… she was getting—" she won't finish.

(Something's not right.)

"Oh, I get it," he says, before he's really sure he does, in a voice that isn't his, "She was getting his birthday present."

Lily's face sinks, and he knows he's got it right.

"It's not his fault," she says, softly, a whisper.

"Of course, it's never his fault," he throws back, and she freezes, eyes bright, paralyzed, "He's never the one to blame."

"Barney, you can't—"

"Oh, I think I can," he says, and he's up on his own two feet again in an instant.

The things that happen in the next three seconds are a blur.

Time is speeding him by, and he only knows two things: Lily is screaming, and his hands are at Ted's throat.

"Barney, stop! _You'll kill him!_ "

And next thing he, not Ted, is crashing to the floor, cast to the ground like the worthlessness he is.

And it's the weight of Marvin's body on top of his that's keeping him there, and Lily is screaming at her son to stop, to please for the love of God stop.

(Of course it was Marvin to tear him away. He never did follow his father's insights on diplomacy.)

Lily stares down at him, and he's seen the look enough to know that the look on her face is the look of someone _terrified._

(He wonders if she still sees a person when she looks at him.)

Ted leans down over him, like he doesn't know anything that just happened.

(They should form a club.)

And, out of all things, he says: "Robin wouldn't want this."

That's what gets Marvin off of him, that's what gets him with a broken nose and he's whimpering as he leans against the wallpaper, and Barney leaps up and punches Ted squarely across the jaw.

Lily screams and lunges at him, nails digging into his skin, and she's asking him but it doesn't sound like asking, it sounds like begging, it sounds like pleading for him to stop in his insanity.

(But what if he likes it better this way?)

"Don't you dare," he says as Ted wipes blood from his mouth, and waves a hand at Lily telling her it's okay, which by all evidence is one of the stupidest things he could do right now, "Don't you dare pretend like you know her."

"I know you're angry right now, Barney," he says, in a calm voice that's impossible for anyone to achieve unless of course he never cared about her at all, "I am too."

Barney rakes his hands through his hair, trimmed nails cutting into his scalps; he wants to tear the china ornaments off the wall, he wants to tear the wallpaper down, her wants to set fire to everything and then himself.

"I've been through this before."

(The unspoken words linger in the air. _With Tracy._ )

"I know what you're going through."

But these are words he's not afraid to speak aloud, in fact, the louder the better: _fuck you._

Ted physically recoils, and Lily gasps at the harsh language.

"Don't say you know what I'm going through," he says, his words distant, cold, and he doesn't care, "You can't know. This is _your_ fault."

Ted doesn't react, but his nostrils flare. "How do you figure that?"

"She would _never_ have been at the market," he takes a step forward, shoves Ted hard in the chest, "If it wasn't for you."

Ted gives Barney a light push off him. "You can't possibly think this is my fault."

"That's exactly what I think."

At last, _finally,_ emotion comes to Ted's face. Whipping, flailing emotion, curling in his lips and settling into the cracks in his face.

"That's like saying if I was never born, this never would have happened," he says, his voice rising, red bleeding into his words, "That's like saying if Tracy hadn't _died_ Robin never would have married me. Is that what you're saying, Barney? Are you saying this is _Tracy's_ fault?"

"Don't you dare bring Tracy into this," he says, and he doesn't know who's speaking, because it sure doesn't sound like him, "You don't deserve her. You never deserved her. Don't you dare talk about Tracy to me."

"And you think you know _my dead wife_ better than I do?"

(Now he has two dead wives.)

"I think I know what she wanted more than you," he says. "I know what she didn't want more than you. She didn't want _you._ She wanted someone who could care about her, love her, she didn't want a cheap image of a husband who ran back to his ex-girlfriend as soon as she was out of the picture!"

(He almost says the words, he almost says _she wanted Max,_ but he doesn't, he doesn't.)

Ted snarls; a dog ready to strike.

Barney gets there first. "You never loved Robin."

"Oh, and you did?"

Barney feels the bright surge of force thread its way through his veins; he could shove Ted back into the wall, his head cracking against the fireplace, and it would feel so good.

But he hears Robin in his ear, in his mind, a ghost tapping on his shoulder. _Don't._

(And so he doesn't, because even as an insane delusion he's conjured up to stop himself from taking the life from his former best friend, he never could say no to her.)

"Of course I did," he says, instead, and he's regretting it, "I loved her more than you ever could."

Ted's eyes go cold. "She was mine first."

"That's the difference," Barney says; he lets out a bark of a laugh, he doesn't know how he manages it, "She was never anyone's. You think she was and she wasn't. I loved her, I didn't _own_ her. You always tried to. But you can't. That's the difference."

He shakes his head; the fire is still in his blood, but it's fading. "You went behind my back," he says, lightly, "You went behind my back and hooked up with my ex-wife without even talking to me. I remember back when I slept with Robin and you wanted to kill me for it. I was never paid the same condolence."

Ted looks down; his fire is fading, too. "You know I'm sorry about that."

"No you're not," Barney says. "No you're not. You just wanted to win. That's all Robin was to you. Tracy was your consolation prize for not getting the girl, but Robin was always the trophy."

That's when he falls; to the ground, back into his wife's embraces, into her ghost, into his own memories.

Lily is the one to drag him out when he's given up on communicating with the world; when all else is a shade of washed out grey and the only thing he sees is the woman he loves embraced by light and laughter and all the things she deserved but never got.

(All the words she could have said but didn't say because he let go of her too fast.)

It's better than reality, anyway.

Lily is the only one to visit him, after that. Her, and Penny.

(He's always been Penny's favourite.)

Luke is too much like his father to bring himself to worry about him; that, at least, he is glad for, because casual visits from a mirror vision of his former best friend is decided to be not the best for his mental heath.

He misses her, and in the darkness, in between the half seconds in which he's allowed to close his eyes, he succumbs to her, and she is his.


End file.
